


An Exciting Prospect

by rosncrntz



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hate to Love, Past Vicbourne, Sexual Tension, Tension, fight me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-07 03:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18229289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosncrntz/pseuds/rosncrntz
Summary: It is not uncommon for a woman with a routine as strict and precise as that of a Queen to occasionally wish for something exciting - unfortunately for Queen Victoria, her wish is fulfilled in the appearance of the arrogant, rude, and entirely infuriating Foreign Secretary: Lord Palmerston. He is not at all what she had in mind and, one thing is for certain, that she will never abide him, however handsome he may be.





	1. Chapter 1

It was not to say that Queen Victoria was bored - but, admittedly, the gloss of marriage had begun to dullen and wear thin and, despite herself, she was sitting up in her bed one morning, nine months pregnant and swelling most horribly, indulging herself in the fancy of something exciting. This was the month of May in the year 1846. It was the wanderings of an idle brain on a single morning and, at the time, Victoria hardly felt the need to chastise herself for such frivolous wishes as these, for it was surely the curiosity of any married woman to lead her to think of what may have been - or, indeed, what may be - if things were not what they were. But, as things were, she was Queen of England, married to Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha and, of course, she was happy with this.

Unfortunately for poor Queen Victoria, only a month had passed when she found herself punished for that hormonal May morning’s thoughts. The birth of Helena had made the Queen irascible, and the news of a new incoming Prime Minister only made her mood worse and, on top of all this, Victoria received her dreamt-of dose of something exciting.

Her excitement came in the form of the Foreign Secretary and, now that she had met her excitement, she regretted her ever having wished for it at all. For Lord Palmerston was unbearable.

Lord Palmerston had been a name beaten about in ballrooms and over dinner tables and wafted around in cigar smoke and swirled in glasses and, yet, Victoria had never had the displeasure of meeting him until, suddenly, he was thrust into her ballrooms and on to her dinner tables with the election of Lord John Russell to the Premiership. She had expected quite a different man. In fact - though it grieved her to think now how wrong she was - she was even anticipating meeting the man who Lord Melbourne had once talked so fondly of and who even Robert Peel was forced to commend on his way with words. But this oaf! This slimy cad! This Palmerston! He made her flesh crawl.

When she first met him, she was cordial enough and he, charmingly, had whipped his walking stick from one hand to the other and, with a wry grin twisting one side of his face, he had kissed her hand, keeping those two blue eyes on her face all the while. It had made her remember how Lord M had spoken of his popularity with the ladies of high society. But as soon as he opened that mouth of his! Oh, she could not imagine how these ladies could bear it! Of course, he was handsome enough, but the crudeness of his speech, the lack of tact, those awful tastes of his! All in half an hour, she had quite decided that she would not get along with this tedious Lord Palmerston. And, yet, he was her Foreign Secretary and, so, she could not be rid of him.

Victoria had found the self-restraint to be discreet about her distaste for Palmerston and every word that boomed from his elegantly-shaped mouth. When they met, she bit her tongue (and he, of course, noticed this and seemed to delight in provoking those tight-lipped glares in his monarch, every twinklingly amused look making Victoria rage more). And when they did not meet, Victoria would refrain from talking of him. At least, she was under the impression that she was refraining - but Emma Portman could not help but notice that, at almost every opportunity, Victoria would say something unfavourable about the Foreign Secretary such as spying a proud cockerel strutting and laugh and say “That foolish creature reminds me of the Foreign Secretary!” or hear of his latest put-down in the Commons and laugh and say “I should have liked to have seen that!” or hear his name and roll her eyes and sigh “Odious little man.” She did not seem to spy the irony of calling a man as tall as Henry ‘little’ but Emma dare not laugh at this; that would be as good as suicide.

And, so, the Queen’s relationship with her Foreign Secretary continued as gracefully as the passage of Sisyphus’ boulder for the best part of two years. And, after two years, Victoria’s patience began to grow thin and these odd comments disparaging the Whig politician grew into headaches, excuses, and what can only be described as active hatred.

It was after a particularly grating morning’s meeting with the Prime Minister and his blonde-haired puppeteer that Victoria returned to her sitting room, throwing off her sash in a bubbling fury and crying out, “I do not see a single redeemable element of his character, a single action he takes which is not deplorable, or a single word he speaks which does not aggrieve me! I do not understand why Lord Russell insists on keeping him always around! He will send me quite mad!”

Lady Emma, having been sat embroidering whilst the Queen was meeting the ministers, had been so alarmed by the Queen’s sudden arrival that she had pricked the fabric in quite the wrong and unseemly place, and a great line of red thread was standing out horribly against her delicate blossoms. Emma, perhaps speaking more out of frustration for the plight of her sewing, sparked up a response, “I fear you are being too harsh on Lord Palmerston, your Majesty!”

Certainly not expecting the challenge, Victoria glared at her lady and retorted, “I fear that he has no knowledge of his place!” Victoria was now realising that her sash would be quite ruined if she did not fold it and, so, she plucked it from the ground and, huffing, turned it a few times around her arm to neaten it and, whilst she placed it back down again, she said, “Only just now, he called my husband a German prig! To my face! How dare he!”

Lady Emma, upon hearing this information, regretted having challenged the Queen and felt quite tempted to stand up right now, run to Lord Palmerston, and give him a hard smack on the back of his head for being such an obstinate, unthoughtful fool!

“Of course, I do not condone such words from the Foreign Secretary, Ma’am, but...”

“There are no ‘buts’ about it, Emma! It is obscene!” Victoria cried, becoming more agitated again and beginning to pick at her recently folded sash, an action which - unbeknownst to Victoria who was quite distracted - was scrunching it up once again. “From the moment I met him, he has been nothing but rude and conceited and arrogant!”

“He can be a little forward, Ma’am.”

“He has no respect for his monarch! He has no consideration for my opinions! He cares only for his awful fighting matches or his terrible habits!”

“His tastes are a little outdated, admittedly.”

“And he can barely go a minute without giving one of my ladies such sordid looks! Disgraceful!”

“He has always been fond of the company of women, Ma’am.”

“I can hardly see how he is fit for the role of Foreign Secretary, so insolent as he is! How he came by the position is entirely beyond me!”

At this, Emma was forced to speak.

“If you do not mind me saying so, Ma’am,” Emma said, in that perfectly measured tone which gave everything she said authority, “I know that Lord Palmerston is well aware of his duties in relation to you: he is a man of government, and has been for decades, and he’s a popular one at that. It is only that he does not blindly submit. That, surely, should be commended, frustrating though it is? It is exactly as the Prince once acted…”

“Do not compare that man to my husband, Lady Portman!” cried Victoria, turning sharply to the other woman, with a blind anger about her face and body which Emma recognised as the sort of emotion which troubles one’s perceptions and muddles their sense. Half of Emma recognised the need to leave the room and allow the Queen to calm down, but her other half bid her stay and defend the man. Was it worth talking sense to one in anger? Of course, it was not, but Emma hopelessly submitted to the task regardless. She knew Victoria to have a good heart, after all, and there was a chance her words could move.  
   
“If only Lord M were still here,” Victoria mused, sadly, quietly, “he would know what to say.”

“Lord Melbourne would tell you to give Lord Palmerston a chance, Ma’am.”

Victoria knew that Emma spoke truly, for she had heard Lord M’s appreciation for Palmerston first-hand, but she did not want to believe it now and, so, said, “I do not understand what my dear Lord M could have found to like in that man. I feel he must have been mistaken all his life, and that Palmerston was deceiving him most wickedly.”

“Ma’am, that is not true,” Emma sighed.

“They are so different!” Victoria could hardly hide her emotion upon talking of her dear friend - her dearest Lord M - who she missed more than anything. Her voice fell low as she repeated, “But they are so different.”  
   
“Ma’am, I have known Lord Palmerston for as long as I knew Lord Melbourne and they…” Lady Portman took a single steady breath of courage. “I remember – this must have been years ago, for we were all much younger and far better looking, but I remember it as clearly as if it had happened this morning – William and Caroline, Henry, Emily and I, and George Lamb was there too I believe, it was early in the morning and wintertime (fiercely cold – goodness knows how we managed it) but we tumbled out of the great glass doors of Brocket Hall in our muslins and the boys in their shirts and we swarmed down to the Broadwater whilst our parents were still asleep.” Victoria hummed in amusement. “I blush to think on it now, your Majesty, but we all threw off our clothes and paddled and swam as blatant and shameless as if we were in the Garden of Eden!” 

“Altogether?” Victoria asked, the amused curl of her lips having given way to a pert blush on the apples of her cheeks. “Without any clothes at all?”

“I am afraid so.” Emma shook her head to remember it. “And it was all Palmerston’s idea - the devil that he is.”

“I do not see how this is supposed to encourage a better opinion of the gentleman, Emma!” Victoria replied, feigning a little more outrage than she was, in fact, feeling.

“I only wish to explain how... you see, Lord Palmerston has antiquated tastes - as did Lord Melbourne. He is still living boldly and coarsely as we did under the reign of George. This does not make him a bad person - as it did not make William a bad person. It makes him different, yes, and in Henry’s case it often makes him absurdly irritating. But it makes him useful,” Emma gave Victoria a soft smile and giggled a little when she said. “And it also made Henry an awful lot of fun.”

“Do you suggest I make amends with the Foreign Minister by throwing myself into a river, Lady Emma?” Victoria asked, wryly, unable to hide her amusement.

“I suggest that you look for what William, and all of us, adored in Palmerston.”

Victoria furrowed her brow, clenched her hands in her skirts, and sighed. Emma watched her pine in thought, but was not worried, for a love of Henry John Temple takes its time; like the sensation of becoming comfortable waist-deep in a freezing cold current, at first it is shrieking agony, then it becomes bracing, exhilarating, and then one’s skin numbs, and the water is soft.

“Did Lord M really adore him so?” Victoria asked, sadly.

Emma Portman thought so fondly of her dear friend when she replied, “Utterly.” And then Emma took a moment to compose herself, and continued, “I know you do not wish to hear this, Ma’am, but Lord Melbourne was the most incorrigible flatterer. Lord Palmerston, as you are surely now aware, is quite the opposite. If you are looking for a Lord M in Palmerston, you will not find it. But if you are looking for someone to love as dearly, there is a man just as good in him.”

Victoria was unconvinced, and replied with some venom, “I do not think so. And I do not think I could ever love that man as I loved Lord M.”

Again, Emma was not worried. Palmerston’s heart was much harder to find than William’s: it was buried deeper, of a temperature it was colder and to the touch it was far sharper. If you had asked Lady Portman that morning at Brocket Hall who was the better man, she would have said Melbourne. But if you had asked her who was more brilliant man, she would have said Palmerston. And, both, she came to learn, were worth the wait.

“You are exceedingly honest with me, Emma, to tell me of this,” Victoria said, after a moment.

“Yes, I do apologise, Ma’am.” Emma was adept at keeping crimson from her cheeks. “I do trust you will not remind Lord Palmerston of his more lewd days? I fear it would only make him feel inferior, in his current state.”

“Emma!” Victoria laughed, “You are wicked!”

Emma laughed, stopped, and said, more earnestly, “I do not know entirely what I wish to convince you of, Ma’am. It is just that... I like Lord Palmerston. I have for some time. I think, with time, you could like him too.”

Queen Victoria had certainly wished for excitement, that May morning. Perhaps Lord Palmerston was exactly what she had wished for. No! Foolishness, Victoria said to herself. Despite her conversation with Emma Portman, she did not wish to put too much thought into her attitude towards Lord Palmerston. Lady Portman clearly wished her to change her mind, but Victoria was not persuaded. She liked Emma, of course she did, but Victoria was convinced that - on this subject - their difference in years and upbringing led to their opposition. Emma herself was a child of this coarse Georgianism; she was far more lenient in the viewing of its depravities than Victoria was. And Victoria, viewing it with the contempt it deserves, was right.

Lord Palmerston and Queen Victoria would not get along: of that, the Queen was certain. But, for Emma’s sake, she would allow him liberties, step back, listen to him if she could (without striking him to the ground with a heavy book), and try to see what good could come of an overly-opinionated, contrary, loud-mouthed, womanising, rabble-rousing, mob-pleasing, smug-faced, tiresomely handsome, arrogant, offensive, out-of-his-time, cigar-smoking, and tactless man.

If any good could come of him at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An orange gives Lord Palmerston an uncomfortable realisation.

It was easiest, in Lord Palmerston’s experience, to greet life with an easy charm and a sharp but subtle tongue if necessary: in all, it was best not to get too attached.  
   
Thus, when Lord Palmerston was in the company of the Queen, he hadn’t the slightest notion of his own distress. Stood in the halls of Buckingham Palace, he juggled an orange from one hand to the other in idle amusement (and the delight of a couple of young maids who paused their duties to watch his entertainments, much to his satisfaction). When invited inside, Lord John Russell spoke and, as was his usual haunt, Palmerston stood a few yards behind, leaning against a wall, holding said orange in his hand, listening in silence, save a few interjections where he felt the Prime Minister’s touch was too soft.  
   
Without quite realising it, a few minutes into their audience with the monarch, Henry was thumb-deep in the flesh of the orange. His nail had, in a frustration that he was barely even aware of, pushed its way through the rind and (with a distracting squelch) had begun to juice the fruit. He pulled his thumb free and was quite embarrassed to find it sticky and, to save further embarrassment at this somewhat strange-seeming behaviour, Lord Palmerston decided to bring the fruit to his mouth and begin to suck it, as if to eat the orange had been his plan all along.  
   
He was eating fruit! Victoria could scarce hide her bristling when, over her Prime Minister’s shoulder, she saw the Foreign Minister sucking on an orange!  
   
Lord Palmerston saw that she had spotted him. Royal protocol told him he should stop but, wickedly, he found something quite amusing in that tightening of her lips and, fixing his eyes quite decidedly on the Queen, he gave the fruit a particularly hard slurp.  
   
Disgusting.  
   
Though this orange debacle had provided the Foreign Minister with some amusement, he was left with a gnawing feeling, a sort of distress that it had ever happened in the first place. It was safe to keep an easy disinterestedness; and he prided himself on his ability to always coolly observe, act, and have his way. But the Queen had got under his skin. His thumb had given him away and, now, his coach bundling from Buckingham’s gates, he raised a hand to his mouth and that sharp citrus in his nostrils made him feel quite queasy.  
   
He was on his way to see Lady Emma Portman. Well, that is not entirely true – he was on his way home but a few raps on the carriage roof put a stop to that. Emma was an old friend and the closest person he knew to the Queen. She could, he hoped, ease him a little. If only William were here. William Lamb had spoken with such ardent adoration of the Queen, Lord Palmerston remembered, but, now, having met the woman in a formal capacity, he could not for the life of him conceive as to why this diminutive prig had so charmed his old friend. Just a word or two with his brother-in-law might save him from this tedium. It was not a good relationship that he desired with Victoria but, at least, an easy one.  
   
Lady Emma was sat in the front-facing sitting room with her husband, Edward, and their dog and, seeing Lord Palmerston’s carriage stop outside their abode, and seeing the tall man in question leap from the door and give a jaunty jog to their doors, Lady Emma turned to her husband and said, with a grin, “I bet you a pound he will want to talk to me of the Queen.”  
   
Edward stroked the ears of their mutt and, creasing his brows, replied, “Why’s that, dear?”  
   
“They insist on hating each other,” Emma laughed, “It really is quite boring.” Three firm knocks on the door kept Emma from expanding on these details and divulging to her husband all the little quirks and expressions that she was so adept at noticing. But there was no need for her to do so, really, for Edward already knew that his clever wife had gazed all the way through their souls and deduced their minds in their entireties. She was awfully good at reading people (she had read him, he blushed to acknowledge, when he first fell in love with her in Hertfordshire all those years ago).  
   
Lord Palmerston saw shown to the sitting room where he shook Lord Portman’s hand, kissed Lady Emma’s, and gave a good patting to the flanks of Toby – this dog of theirs. The dog, quite liking Henry (he had a way with dogs that he did not always have with people), jumped down from his master’s side and sidled up to Palmerston’s legs when he took a seat opposite the couple. He was offered brandy-wine and port and took the latter. He had brandy-wine in his flask.  
   
“How are you, Henry?” Emma asked, once the man was settled and drinking. “How is your wife?”  
   
“Emily is a minx as ever.”  
   
“Good, good.” She paused. “Henry, do tell me, why is your hand covered in orange juice?” Emma had noticed the residue of such a citrus fruit on her hand after Palmerston had taken it to kiss.  
   
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” Henry teased, raising his brows over his glass of port. Emma glared at him. He sighed, “I... I had an audience with the Queen this morning and... I ate an orange.”

“You ate an orange?” Emma was quite staggered, and greatly amused. “In front of the Queen?”

“I certainly did.”

“And why did you do that?”

“One can never be too careful, Emma, scurvy can creep up on a man something rotten...”

“Oh, don’t be a fool with me,” Emma scolded, rolling her eyes and giving her husband a knowing look. “You ate an orange whilst discussing matters of state?”

“My thumb went into it.”

“Your thumb...?”

“I looked down and my thumb had done straight through it and, well, I couldn’t just let it sit there, could I? It was beginning to drip and I’d look like a fool, so I ate it.”

Emma let out a great laugh. Henry did not see much humour in this.

“Don’t tease, Emma.”

“Oh, Henry, that’s quite the absurd story. I swear William never had anything so ridiculous happen to him in the Queen’s company.”

“You don’t know your own strength then, is it, Henry?” Lord Palmerston asked. “Not to realise you were digging your thumb into an orange...”

“Well, no, I...”

“You were getting so frustrated with the Queen that, before you realised it, you were crushing a fruit, hm?” Emma asked. Lord Palmerston felt ashamed to answer, but his silence gave Emma all the answer she needed. “Oh, that is too funny. She must have hated that!”

Henry smiled to remember how she had glowered at him, and replied, “Yes, I think she did.”

“You must stop teasing her, Henry. It’s impolite and unfair!” Emma pleaded, only half-seriously, for the thought of this very odd orange encounter was still playing in her mind.

Henry only groaned and replied, “Oh, but it can be so dull! That oaf Russell droaning on and the Queen worrying all the time, so humourless, and that dreary Prince of hers-”

“Henry!” Emma warned, “That’s quite enough of that. She is your monarch.”

“You know I’ve never really gone in for that whole monarch malarkey.” Palmerston was picking at the pocket of his jacket. “William did, of course, and so does my wife of course but...” His face was thoughtful and his voice quieter than usual as he replied, “I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Well it doesn’t matter how you feel about it, the fact remains that it is true.”

“I don’t see why I should flatter her!” Henry exclaimed, growing more frustrated. At this, Toby - who was quite comfortable at Palmerston’s feet - was startled and pattered from the room.

“I’m not asking you to flatter her. I’m asking you to respect her.”

Henry could not see how to look past her close-minded, naive, compulsive, prudish and altogether disagreeable exterior in order to find a nugget of something which he could respect. She needed a sense of life! For God’s sake! He wanted to see her breathe!

The monarchy was excellent at producing statues. People and art. He would pass a statue of Victoria and feel tempted to call it “Ma’am” - hardly knowing the difference between artifice and the article.

“She’s a much better woman than you give her credit for,” Emma added, with some ferocity in her voice that came in defence of the Queen and her friend.

“She’s a prude.”

“God, yes, maybe. But you’re a cad.” Emma’s patience was being tested by two adults acting like children. “You won’t change her anymore than she will change you. So, for God’s sake, find something to like about her, as she’ll do for you.” Emma spike the final clause without thinking and, stopping her mouth, she saw a wrinkle form in Palmerston’s brow.

“As she’ll do for me? Whatever do you mean, Emma?” Palmerston asked, noticing how the woman had quickly ceased her talking.

“It is nothing.”

“What has she said?”

“Henry.”

“Have you spoken to her about me?”

“Don’t be so prideful.”

“It is not pride that is making me ask!” he chuffed. Emma did not believe that and, besides, even if she did believe that Henry was not (as he always had been even when he was young) led by his vanity in a good many things, she was tired.

“I think Emily will be expecting you home, Henry.”

A last ditch effort, regardless of the shame he felt in being so keen about it all: “Emma, tell me what she said about me.”

Emma stood up, “Shall I show you out?”

Henry, climbing back into his carriage and ordering the driver to take him home, felt a little uneasy at this secret knowledge which was kept from him. What had they said to one another? What had Victoria said, and why had she said it? What did Emma know? Had the Queen passions - any humanity beyond the marble? His mind ached; the uneasiness of it all. The same uneasiness as feeling orange juice on his wrist and knowing that Queen Victoria had got under his skin. The same uneasiness that came from trying to talk to her, to persuade her of his opinion, to make her laugh, or at least scream at him. An uneasiness but, as he thought of that flash of humanity that Emma had been witness to, that uneasiness felt very much like a thrill.

Emma, meanwhile, threw herself back down on the sofa beside her husband, allowed Toby to rest his head in her lap, curled up in Edward’s arms.

“Why, oh, why can’t they behave!” she cried.

Edward hummed and replied, “You must stop being so capable, Emma. They come to you for support.”

“Oh, I wish they wouldn’t.”

Edward kissed Emma’s forehead.

“I’ll tell you what,” Emma began.

“What is it?” Edward asked.

“By the end of the month, they’ll have either killed each other, or they’ll be making love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I love Emma Portman.

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn’t resist. I apologise. But I’m also not sorry. Because the sexual tension was there in the first episode. (I am sure this is full of typos and historical inaccuracies. But, regardless, do let me know what you think.)


End file.
